


The Tale of the Distant Laughter

by ShakespeareFreak



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Blood and Gore, Cake, Cemetery, Ghost Stories, Ghosts, Gore, Horror, Scary Stories, Urban Legends, written like an urban legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 22:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakespeareFreak/pseuds/ShakespeareFreak
Summary: As you are reading this, it may be summer, or spring, or fall. But whatever the season, come with me now… in your mind’s eye, see frost etch incomprehensible sigils on your windowpane, and let the ground outside be covered with a blanket of snow as white and sterile as bleached bone. Wrap up in a blanket against the chill, because I’m going to take you to one cold December night, where a lost child, blinded by the snow, wanders into a frozen nightmare.





	The Tale of the Distant Laughter

That cold Wisconsin night, snow fell softly in the darkness, a million white crystallites coldly burning. No wind blew, seeking through downy coats to chill the skin; no, this night was still, heavy with killer cold. The night was murderous without intent: like a ravened beast, this cold would kill with stupid, unthinking savagery.

The snowflakes, large and fluffy, drifted like down in the air, and landed on the flaxen, curly hair of a little girl. The snow in her hair and on her cheeks did not melt: she was too cold. She was seven. Her little face had been hot and red before, blood blooming in her cheeks from the freezing air, but now her skin was a blotchy white: the beginnings of frostbite. The faux-fur shawl wrapped tightly round her small frame was lovely, but did little to warm her. There were tears in her eyes, frozen on her lashes, glittering on her pale cheeks, and had there been anyone to see her, they would have been struck by how lovely, almost angelic, she looked as she approached the point of freezing to death. 

The little girl knew nothing of how the accident had occurred. She’d been asleep, drowsing in the warmth of the car’s heater and listening to the low, comfortable murmurs of her parents. Then suddenly she’d been jerked awake as the car spun, wildly, out of control, and caught a brief impression of whirling snowflakes in the headlights, and a scream—her mother’s—and then the world was upside down, and there was shattered glass and freezing cold and snow drifting onto the ceiling of the upturned car.  
  
She had crawled out, dazed, through the shattered rear window, shards of glass slicing into her palms, drops of blood welling on her skin and falling to bloom like dark flowers in the snow. Then she’d gone round to get her parents. But they were still and silent, and she thought she saw, within the shadows of the car, something dark puddling in the snow. The dark stuff scared her, and their silence. Something was wrong. They were hurt. Maybe very badly. She didn’t even  _think_  the word “dead,” because yes, people  _did_  die, Grampa died and he went to Heaven, but Mommy and Daddy weren’t going to go to Heaven, ever, because they were the center of the world.  
  
But they  _were_  hurt. And she was the only one there to get help. So she would have to be brave. She couldn’t stop and cry; no one would comfort her with hugs and hand her Mr. Snuffles (her toy elephant, sealed up in the trunk). No one would clean her cuts with stinging Neosporin and give her the Band-Aids with Dora the Explorer on them. And after a moment of utter despair as that realization sank in, she got moving. It was a very grown-up thing to do for such a little girl.  
  
But now she moved much slower. At first, she’d called and called, thinking surely, eventually someone would hear her; but no one had come. She’d seen no lights, no sign of life. She was getting very sleepy… maybe it would be okay to lie down, just for a second. Just to nap. The snowdrifts looked surprisingly inviting, like soft pillows.  
  
Then out of nowhere, a sudden gust of freezing wind hit her, blowing the snow into her eyes. She shuddered violently, blind to all except the stinging white, and—  
  
She walked right into a wall.  
  
For a moment, she didn’t realize the significance. Then it hit her all at once in a rush of joy.  _A wall!_  A wall meant a building, and a building meant people, and these people would wrap her up in a blanket and give her hot chocolate and maybe even marshmallows, and they’d go back with doctors and help Mommy and Daddy, and then everything would be all right!  
  
She called out, but received no answer. She called again and again, her voice hoarse with cold and crying, as she felt along the wall, still blinded by the snow… and then her hands touched cold metal bars.  _A gate?_  She felt more, and yes, it was, and it swung open at her touch.  
  
As she stepped inside, the wind died down all at once, leaving an eerie calm in its wake. As the snow settled, she saw where she was, and her heart plummeted. She was surrounded by tombstones of all shapes and sizes.  
  
A graveyard.  
  
She was a little scared, but only a little. She was more worried that there was no one alive here; no hot chocolate waiting, no help for her parents. But then she saw the dark, squat shape of a house, way on the other side of the cemetery. No lights were on, but if she knocked… she headed off in that direction, through the tombstones.  
  
As she walked, she ran her fingers over the cold smooth stone of the grave markers, idly reading the names and dates engraved there.  _“Rafkin… Gray… Meeks… Rainey… Kramer…”_  she read aloud as she walked along. Some of the stones were brand-new… others so old and worn she could barely read the inscriptions. Here and there, a wreath of withered flowers or a tiny figurine dotted the snow.  
  
Then she saw one grave that was different than the others. This one had  _heaps_  of stuff in front of it: tiny stuffed bears; little angel statues; flowers and small toys and pretty bells. But something was wrong. As cold as she was, she felt even colder looking at it. She felt, instinctively, that the offerings had been left not out of love, but out of fear; like someone might give a big scary dog a treat, in hopes that it might prefer eating the Milk-Bone to eating your arm. She edged closer, in fearful fascination, and, trembling from dread and from the cold, she read the dates on the stone.  
  
She relaxed. There was nothing to be afraid of after all; why, this child had been even younger than her! “Poor little kid…” she whispered softly. Then her eyes widened as her gaze happened on the paper plate set beside the gravestone.  
  
A big, thick piece of yellow cake, with icy white frosting, and a lone birthday candle set in the top, was on the plate. Her mouth watered. She looked again at the dates on the stone. The child’s birthday would have been just a couple days ago, if they’d been alive to celebrate it. Their Mommy or Daddy must have set this out here for them. She teared up, briefly, as she thought of her own Mommy and Daddy. Were they still asleep? Maybe they’d woken up, and now they were scared because she wasn’t there… she needed to get help, quick.  
  
But first… She looked at the cake again. It wasn’t nice to steal, but she was  _so_  hungry, and  _so_  tired, and it wasn’t like this kid was going to eat it  _anyways…_  
  
She was only seven. She ate the cake.  
  
The cold had kept it fresh; it was even still moist. The frosting was thick and creamy, and her eyes rolled back in delight. It was delicious. She ate every crumb, then licked her fingers and even licked the plate clean. The food in her stomach gave her new strength and drive to carry on. She stood up.  
  
That’s when she heard it for the first time: a high, clear, childlike laugh, drifting on the wind like crystal bells; very faint, like it was coming from very, very far away. Her head jerked up and she looked around wildly; but no one was there.  
  
“Hello?” she called out. “Hello? Can you help me please?” She waited and waited, but there was no answer. After a few minutes, she started out again for the house. She knew it was silly, but she really didn’t like being by that kid’s grave. It gave her the creeps.  
  
She’d walked for about five minutes when she heard it again; that high, clear laughter. It sounded so sweet and joyful, but it scared her, all the same. And had it sounded closer this time? She walked faster.  
  
She walked in silence for a while, and then it came again, drifting on the air like sleigh bells. She was  _sure_  it was closer now. And she realized with a jolt it was a  _nasty_  laugh; the kind of laugh a not-so-nice kid gives when they’re pulling a mean prank on someone else. She looked around again, but she saw no one.  
  
She walked further… and suddenly she saw footprints in her path.  
  
At first she thought they were her own, that she’d wandered around in a circle accidentally… but then she looked up and saw the house still straight ahead. She looked closer, and saw that the prints were too small to be from her shoes. That laughter came again, rising and falling through the frozen air, joyful but malicious. It sounded very close now.  
  
She ran.  
  
She ran, and as she ran, she heard the laughter ringing in her ears… she crossed more tracks, made by shoes just a little too small to be her own… and she thought she saw a dark shape, flickering through the tombstones, rustling the long, snowy branches of the tall fir trees planted here and there. The laughter seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, but it was definitely getting closer, it was  _right behind her,_  it was going to GET HER—  
  
And then suddenly the laughter stopped, in an angry strangled cry. She looked up, and saw, tall over her, the statue of an angel. He had long hair and flowing robes, and held a trumpet in one marble hand, and his wings were spread like a shield against dark things. His stone eyes were empty, but she could have sworn they were looking right at her with a kind, loving expression. When she’d come near the statue, the  _thing,_  whatever it was, couldn’t follow.  
  
She stayed with the angel a long time, curled up at his feet, sobbing desperately. But then she felt the cold setting into her bones again, and some small, grown-up part of her realized that if she fell asleep here—as she wanted very badly to do—she wouldn’t wake up. She looked past the statue’s wings to the house. It seemed very close now. And, she had an idea—without knowing how she knew—that the laughing thing wouldn’t be able to follow her if she got to the edge of the graveyard. She looked the statue in its kind, blank eyes once more, a determined expression on her small face… and then started off again, at a dead run.  
  
She hadn’t gone two steps when the laughter resumed. But she ran on. It got closer and closer, and there were those footprints again, they were  _everywhere,_  crisscrossing the snow in intricate patters, and yes, there  _was_  something there, something dark and grinning, darting between the graves like a shadow. She ran, faster and faster, tears streaming down her face, panting, her lungs burning, her breath steaming in the crystal-cold air, but it wasn’t enough, the house was still  _too far_ , and the THING was  _too fast_ , she could feel its tiny, icy fingers on the back of her neck, and that laughter, that terrible laughter was  _RIGHT THERE,_  and—!  
  
And then it stopped again, cut off as if by a knife, because she was at the edge of the graveyard. She collapsed, panting and crying, but triumphant. She’d  _done_  it; it was  _over._  She’d  _beaten_  it.  
  
And then she realized that though she had cleared the tombstones, she was still inside the wall. The other gate, the one by the house, was less than a foot away, and she moved to open it…  
  
And heard the laughter, that horribly gleeful, mockingly sweet laughter,  _right by her ear_ , and she turned and  _saw it_  and SCREAMED...  
  
...and then she screamed no more.  

**_..._ **

The next morning, the caretaker of Oak Hill Cemetery, Mr. Hank Peterson, walked out of his house beside the graveyard to behold a terrible sight. It was breaking news later that day:  **MARY WILKES, 7, FOUND DEAD IN OAK HILL CEMETERY.**  Then, later,  **POLICE SEARCHING FOR SUSPECTS IN WILKES GIRL MURDER.**  Later,  **PARENTS OF OAK HILL VICTIM FOUND DEAD IN AUTO ACCIDENT.**

But there were things that never made it onto the news channels or into the papers. Things that were just too gruesome, too unexplainable. Things that made Mr. Peterson vomit into the snow until his stomach was empty, and kneel there, in a puddle of his own breakfast, dry-heaving for ten minutes before he could finally stand up and call the police.  
  
Mary Wilkes, age seven, was found dead in a snowdrift; snow had settled on her unseeing eyes, which were staring at the grey cloudy sky in an expression of horror. Her face was frozen in a rictus of terror. Her faux-fur shawl was matted with blood, and thick pink chunks of soft, fleshy matter. Her torso had been torn open, apparently by human fingernails, and her dark intestines coiled below an empty space… her stomach had been forcibly ripped out.  
  
A trail of blood, blooming on the snow like deep red flowers out of season, led from Mary’s body across the cemetery to a grave… a grave surrounded by tiny stuffed bears, little angel statues, flowers and small toys and pretty bells. Also by the grave was an empty paper plate. The trail of blood stopped suddenly right there, as if the killer had tunneled into the grave with his gruesome prize… but the ground was undisturbed, and the only footprints in the deep white snow were Mary’s own.  
  
And somewhere, far away, Mr. Peterson, and the police officers, and the news reporters who visited the scene later that day, thought they could hear a child’s laughter, drifting on the wind like crystal bells.  

####  **THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> _Written Dec. 2014_
> 
> The way I came up with this is pretty interesting in and of itself, but I feel it detracts from the horror and mystery of the tale, so I'm not going to relate it here. If you're interested enough, feel free to message me for the real-life events that inspired this work.
> 
> **P.S.** Bonus points if you can figure out who "Rafkin, Gray, Meeks, Rainey, and Kramer" (the last names Mary reads off the tombstones) are!


End file.
